Sudden Movements

Short story: dark, disturbing, revenge

Drip, drip, drip.

"Oh, shit. Ohhhhhh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit." My partner lets out a nervous laugh, and their voice shakes."You actually did it," a deep inhale, "He's dead."

Of course I killed him, I think to myself. There was never another way.

Drip, drip, drip.

The room is cold, moldy-smelling, and drafty. The only sounds detectable are the rough, ragged breaths from the man in the chair in front of me and a constant drip, drip, drip.

His head rolls from side to side. He is breathing hard, and his mouth keeps opening, as if he’s on the verge of saying something but he keeps losing the energy to speak before he can begin.

I look at him sitting in the brown metal folding chair. The chair is missing chips of paint all over it, revealing a dull black metal underneath. It is dented, small, no doubt the most uncomfortable chair we could have found.

The man's head, covered in thick dark hair sprouting in a perfect spiral from his crown, rolls to the other side. His mouth hangs open, his face set in a grimace. I realize then that the sounds I believed to be his attempts to speak are actually choked sobs. He's crying.

I shut my eyes and remember why we are here. This man's tears mean nothing, I say to myself. My fists clench at my sides as I open my eyes.

I'm somewhat startled by the vision of this man tied to the chair. He's really there, in his brown, pleated slacks, his orange and white pinstripe shirt, with the big collar drooping low. We actually brought him here, after months of fantasizing about it. His shoes are still shiny in some spots: pointed black patent leather boots without laces, just a big gold buckle on the ankle. He doesn't fit in with this dank dungeon, the walls of which are occasionally glistening with water trickling down, tracing the pathways between the bricks. Left, down, right, down, right, down, down, down.

His bronze skin shows from his unbuttoned shirt and I can see a small portion of a tattoo peeking out at the edge. I idly wonder what the tattoo could be until my eyes notice the vomit staining the collar of his shirt. The soft, supple fabric of that orange and white shirt has become a tapestry of vomit and sweat stains over the hours of our time together down here. His pants, originally one shade of brown, are worse, but in the dimness of this room, I am unable to see how many more shades of brown they have become, and for that I am glad.

I am not glad to do what I have to do. I just know it has to be done. I know that whatever this is that I am able to do, this - ability, has to have a purpose. Otherwise it is beyond ridiculous, a strange, not-funny joke from the universe.

The man continues to sob, in half-grunts and deep exhalations. I hear my partner shift behind me. I take a deep breath, raise my eyes to the singular light bulb swinging at the end of a chain descending from the ceiling and turn to look over my shoulder. I know my eyes are wide with apprehension and I can feel the corners of my mouth turning down as I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. It's cold down here, but also my nervous system is fried, my senses overwhelmed by the hours standing in this room, fighting to stay warm, interrogating this man, and willing my stomach and its contents to hold fast against the stench filling every corner of this cell.

My partner looks back at me, their head tucked in between their raised shoulders, their fingers pinched around a section of their white shirt collar, holding it up over their nose. They nod quickly, short cropped red hair bouncing, and give me a thumbs up with their other hand. I blink slowly, and turn back to the man.

Before I can say or do anything, he speaks between sobs. His head lolls as he sits slumped over.

"Please. Oh, God, please." He drags in his breath and it comes in little high-pitched hiccups. His words come out in a rush.

"It hurts. Please. My guts hurt, man. You gotta stop. I can't take this no more."

He pauses to look up at me, his hazel eyes barely open under well-manicured thick brows. His mouth falls open again and he lets out a low grunt. "At least let me have some water. Please. Something ain’t right. Why is this happening?"

The "this" he's wondering about is hard to explain. He hasn't put the pieces together yet. I pause to consider how frightening it would be to be tied to a chair in a dark, empty cellar. I picture the adrenaline flowing through his veins while being interrogated by a couple of big, burly gangsters, waving bats and brass knuckles around. I imagine cold fear enveloping him as the thugs beat him to a pulp over several hours. Yes, that would be frightening. But what have we cooked up here? The stuff of worse, awkward, uncomfortable nightmares perhaps?

How does one react to waking in this room, restrained, facing two unimpressive, unintimidating nerds standing over them? The man had chuckled at first, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"What’s all this? Some kinky little game?", he’d asked. “No need to tie me up, girls. I’ll cooperate. We can all have a great time.”

A grin had spread across his face when we said nothing, showing perfect white rectangular teeth. The kind of smile lots of women probably melted for. I had almost lashed out right then and there, but I had waited, wanting to savor the shock of what was yet to come.

“Christ, this guy’s a sleazeball” My partner had grumbled at my side and held out a hand toward the man in the chair in a gesture that I took to mean “he’s all yours”.

How does one react later, when the first wave of unexplainable pain washes over them, emanating from their core? How does one react when wave after wave continues to pummel their entire body, starting as a fire in the belly and reaching outward? Does it become frightening when one can't speak through the pain, can barely breathe, despite no one setting a finger on them? Does fear take hold when one realizes that their captors haven't bothered to mask their faces because they don't plan on letting the hostage free? Or does it only cross into nightmare territory in that singular, baffling moment when the pain subsides and instead of being able to take a breath and regain composure, the victim finds that in its wake, all that is left is a gelatinous void where their bowels should have been?

He hadn't been laughing then.

"Fuck! Jesus. I shit myself. What the fuck?!" His had screams bounced around the room, hitting all four walls and ringing in my ears. "What are you sick fucks watching me for??"

He tried to double over in his chair as another wave hit him.

That was three hours ago. Three hours and over that time, a puddle had grown beneath the man's chair. A puddle I can't bear to look at, but I know is there.

He speaks again, "I've told you. The guys that come to me, they don't ask questions and neither do I. I said I was sorry.” I hear a scoff from behind me. He doesn't notice.

"I didn't know how old those girls were. I never even looked at the stuff." I shoot him a glance, and he instinctively cowers. He doesn't know what is happening to his body, but he's starting to suspect I am the cause. But - that's ridiculous. And impossible. He brings his knees up a little in a feeble attempt to shield his stomach from me.

"Ok, ok. Ok, sure, yeah I've seen it. Is that what you want me to say? I've seen it. Fine. I still don't know nothing about how it gets to me or who these girls are." A thought comes to him and he starts to speak quickly. "In fact, you know what? I’m just the middle man. I'm nothing. I'm so low on the totem pole. I - I swear. Y - You don't want me. I can point you to the big guy in charge, ok? Me? I just get the tapes, I don't ask questions. I take the money and I don't know nothing. But - but if you want the name of the guy running this thing - hell, I'll even point out the guys who buy the tapes. Just, please, please let me outta this chair. I don't think I can sit in," he trails off, his eyes dropping to his lap and then back to mine. He starts again, slowly and quietly. "I don't think I can sit in my own shit anymore. Something's wrong with me." He stutters "I - I - I’m real s-sick, I think. I gotta get out of here."

I don't say anything. I reach my hand out behind me to my partner and after a brief shuffling, a small stack of papers are in my hand. I bring them in front of my face and begin to read.

"Carl Mondri. Jason Barnes. Paul Kelley. Mitch Lamont. Dan Estrada. Peter Holt." I throw the papers at him. They fan out in all directions around him. His head falls and his chin hits his chest. His shoulders sag. The papers fall at his feet and begin soaking up the brown ooze collecting around his lovely European boots.

"Yeah, man. We already know who buys the tapes." I reach my hand behind me again. Nothing. I shake my hand with urgency. Another pause, then a shuffle, and a new stack of papers is in my hand. I bring those to my face and begin to read again.

"Casey, Nina, Julie, Raquel." His head shoots up and he straightens in his chair. He yells, "Yo, what the fuck?" His eyes are charged with rage and he pulls his arms against the restraints on his wrists. The metal joints of the chair creak.

I go on. "Karla, Janette, Patricia, Elizabeth." He pulls on his restraints harder and growls out at me, "Stop it. I don't want to hear that shit!"

I step forward fast, shaking, filled with pure hatred for this man. He flinches at my sudden movement. I hear a small slap as my shoe hits the puddle at his feet. I push it from my mind as I bend down, holding my arm out and shoving the papers in his face. The list.

"What? WHAT?!" I roar. "You can't handle hearing the names of the girls you've hurt? I thought you were just a middle man? I thought you were nothing! I thought you had never even watched the stuff? This is how you live your life. This is how you make your living. EVERY. DAY." My voice is booming and tearing my throat. I pause before spitting out the last sentence. "This is how you pay for your mother's groceries every week."

From behind the papers, I hear his breath catch. His whole body tenses. I lower the papers. If he is stunned at all to see my face so close to his, he doesn't show it. His glassy eyes are filled with fear, shock, and rage. He stammers out, "My - my - ma." He gulps, which I imagine feels like nails scraping the inside of his dry throat. He croaks, resignation coating his voice, "My ma. You know too much. What are you doing?!" He’s whining now. His eyes begin genuinely searching mine. Back and forth his irises move in a panicked quest for the answers. Then, they lock onto mine. He's figured it out. He starts to tremble, and a new sheen of sweat develops on his already flushed forehead.

I lick my lips and turn from him, dropping the papers and looking over my shoulder once more. My partner's eyes are red-rimmed, but the expression on their face is hard, determined. I stand up straight and face him again, stretching my neck to the left, and then to the right. I bring my shoulder blades together as I open up my chest and stretch my back. I look up at the slightly swaying lightbulb in the ceiling again.

I close my eyes and start to speak. "Abdominal pain. I know you're hurting. Fever. I can tell you're burning up. Fatigue is plain to see. Bleeding." I pause. "Well I'll just have to assume we've ticked off that box. I don't care to look closely." I lower my head, open my eyes to look at the floor now. A brown spot of this man's liquid feces covers the white toe of my sneaker. I fill my lungs with a deep gulp of air and immediately regret it. Sighing, I go on.

"You see. We already know who the 'big guy in charge' is." He groans, no doubt seeing he has no bargaining chips left - that he never had any.

"We never needed information from you. We know everything. Those girls. They are on your list, the list you'll take to hell with you. And you, you're on our list. And we've got every name we need." The last words come out in a whisper, but I don't care if he's heard me or not.

I continue to stare at the fecal matter on my shoe as I say, "Dehydration.” I nod. “You’re definitely dehydrated. I don't know, because how would I ever be able to know if anyone has shit themselves to death in three hours, but I think cardiac arrest would be next. Some type of organ failure. I don’t know how quick it is."

I tilt my head to look up at him. His face is a sagging mask of pain, grief, and confusion. He's giving me one last, bewildered look, taking me in. My silly, big curly hair, framing an angular face hidden behind big blue glasses. My flowing, short sleeved floral top and denim cut-off shorts. My skinny legs and knobby knees, then my white socks, dotted with splashes of his diarrhea, and black and white sneakers. Completely unassuming. Never a "chick" he'd have given a second look to. This makes me feel good, knowing his last moments won’t be wasted on apologies or reflections on his life, but spent in a thick fog of perplexity. He deserves no peaceful last moments. He deserves nothing.

I sneer at him. He panics again. "Please, leave my ma outta this. Whatever happens to me. Please don't bring her into this." He shrinks as I yell suddenly.

"You think I'd harm a single hair on your sweet mother's head?! You think I'd break her heart and tell her her son is a real piece of garbage?! You think I'd do that to that woman?! NO! She deserved a better son. She'll never hear another word about you again. And she'll be better off!"

He's crying again. His shaggy brown hair drips with sweat as he shakes. I close my eyes and concentrate. In the next instant he's screaming, convulsing, gurgling, as his body is taken over by agony.

I breathe in deeply, my eyelids flutter, and I summon the energy from within. My gift. His screams fade away from my mind. I feel the power fill my chest with a warm, driving force. I feel it harden my muscles, turn my veins to stone, make my tendons brittle as I raise my hands toward his head. And then I let it go.

Drip, drip, drip.

---

This short story was inspired by a joke between my partner and me about what has to be the best/most unfortunate superpower. Controlling someone's bowels with your mind would be messy and disgusting but well worth it in these trying times.